


my morning and evening star of love

by blueblueelectricblue



Series: a star spinning in orbit, lighting up the sky [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bed-Wetting, Diapers, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-12-06 23:20:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18226763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueblueelectricblue/pseuds/blueblueelectricblue
Summary: Fall is upon them and Steve and Bucky are enjoying a long weekend of beautiful weather and each other's adult company - until they aren't anymore. But it all works out, especially after a tactical nap deployment and some tacos.(Or, the one where they get into a fight and Steve gives Bucky the silent treatment. It doesn't last very long.)





	my morning and evening star of love

Bucky had forgotten how much he likes autumn in Washington until it comes back around, the days brilliant with sunshine and sharpened by cool air and the trees becoming a gorgeous riot of flames. He mentions it to Steve on one such morning, who smiles and tells him it’s always been Bucky’s favorite, ever since they were kids; not that they’d gone on hayrides or apple picking in Brooklyn or anything like that, but Bucky had liked the cooler weather and the promise of Christmas around the corner, and the Barnes family had always had Steve and Mrs. Rogers over for Thanksgiving (or just Steve, if Mrs. Rogers was working, which most of the time she was). He doesn’t remember any of that, but he trusts Steve to tell the truth.

Not to mention, it tracks with what he does remember of his childhood. Bucky may not be able to remember what his parents and sisters looked like without having to refer to a photograph – and that’s something he really does regret – but he remembers a general atmosphere of warmth and generosity and humor and music. Someday, when he can muster up the courage for it, Bucky’s going to Facebook stalk his relatives, but that might be a while from now.

So Bucky doesn’t care if it’s corny of them to go and do those things like apple picking. It’s fun, and he and Steve get to spend time together like a regular couple; they drive out to western Maryland or even to Pennsylvania and make a day trip out of it. They drink cider, they eat at diners that only take cash and cover everything with gravy except for the milkshakes, they try out new Spotify playlists on the drive. And it’s a good thing they both like apples, because Bucky’s had to get creative with their weekly hauls. One time, they drag along Sam and Natasha, who are way less impressed by the activity and tease them the whole way home about being a couple of old grandpas, pointing out retirement communities along the way.

No apples for _them_. Or apple turnovers. Or apple butter in hermetically sealed little mason jars, made with Bucky’s recently acquired home canning kit from Ball. Or cinnamon apples. Or applesauce.

(“Anything else, Forrest?” Sam inquires after Bucky’s gone through the litany, and he makes a note to look it up later because it is so obviously an insult even without Natasha cracking up next to him in the backseat.

Bucky is _so pissed_ when he finds _Forrest Gump_ ’s Wikipedia entry later that day.)

Today, he and Steve had enjoyed going out for a drive through Amish country just for the hell of it, picking up a dozen fresh, hot apple cider doughnuts ( _not_ donuts, dammit) from a little stand on the side of the road outside of a tiny Pennsylvania town improbably named Intercourse, which apparently is on the way to another town called Blue Ball, and apparently they’re both still 12-year-olds at heart because for some reason they just can’t stop giggling any time they pass a sign for either, which is pretty often until they hit Strasburg. Steve had immediately eaten five of them and Bucky had eaten two, so they wound up buying another dozen to take home. Somehow that box of doughnuts does actually make it all the way back to their Dupont Circle apartment, although they mutually and tacitly agree that they won’t mention what happened to the first box, which mysteriously found a garbage can in Hagerstown.

Neither of them feels like cooking, so by mutual agreement they stop for Chinese takeout before home, which suits Bucky fine. He loves Chinese food – another thing Steve has told him was also true when they were kids – and he also loves how much more _variety_ there is now. Even the grocery stores are full of stuff they never could have gotten out of season in the 30s and 40s, herbs and spices they didn’t know even existed back them, cuts of meat that were expensive as hell then and cheap as dirt now, and vice versa. Good thing they’re also still full of canned goods and convenience foods, because at least _that_ is familiar. Bucky still somehow remembers the original Oreo packaging and the way Jell-O boxes used to look, that they even came in savory flavors like celery, which, _ugh_.

So the evening passes like any other. Steve is on the first day of his three-day weekend, for which they’re both grateful; he hasn’t had this many days off in a row since his birthday in July. They eat dinner and watch a few episodes of _Blue Planet_ – although watching the last one is more like “watching” because they’ve got their hands all over each other, and wind up trying out the new flavored lube that Bucky had picked up on a whim one day last week – they move this into the bedroom. Neither of them wants to find out if passionfruit-flavored lube stains leather.

(“This didn’t taste a thing like passionfruit,” Steve complains.

“Yeah, but it’s not like you stopped because it tasted so bad. What _did_ it taste like?”

“Kind of like that weird canned mango iced tea from the corner store.”

“That _is_ weird. My turn now, I wanna try it.”

A few minutes later, “Oh my god, that _does_ taste like the weird iced tea you hate.”

“Are you gonna finish me off or what?”)

All this is probably why Bucky’s caught so off-guard when he wakes up at 3 in the morning because Steve’s having what appears to be an incredibly realistic nightmare. It’s a wonder the neighbors aren’t pounding on their door demanding to know who’s being murdered, he’s yelling so loud about HYDRA.  He’s struggling against an invisible force, his hands clawing at the air, and Bucky doesn’t do anything right away; he knows exactly how this goes, no stranger to a nightmare based in memory, and doesn’t want to wake Steve too suddenly. Not so much because Bucky doesn’t want to get punched in the nose (which he definitely does not) but because if Steve punches him in the nose, he will feel bad about it at him all day tomorrow and Bucky cannot handle Steve’s guilty face for more than an hour.

“Steve. _Steve_ ,” Bucky tries, even raising his voice, but it doesn’t have an effect. So he turns on the bedside lamp, because at least it won’t be dark in here when Steve wakes up, which he hopes is soon.

It seems like ages but is really just a minute or two before Steve screams Bucky’s name before his eyes are even open; he sits bolt upright and starts to gasp for breath, hands shaking badly. When his breathing has returned to normal, he draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them as if he’s trying to make himself disappear.

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m here,” Bucky says, and he doesn’t try to hug Steve right now, just puts a hand on his sweaty shoulder.

Steve buries his face in his duvet-covered knees and mumbles something that Bucky can’t make out.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Now, _that_ comes through loud and clear.

“You want a glass of water?”

“No.” A pause. “Thanks.”

A few more minutes pass with them sitting there like that, until Steve lifts his head to look at Bucky, the fear still not completely gone from his eyes. “I was in the factory again and it was all the same as when it really happened, except I couldn’t save you. And then we were on the train, and I couldn’t save you there either. Or on the bridge. Or on the helicarrier. You kept dying in front of me and I couldn’t do anything about it, and that’s how I knew it was a nightmare, but…” He takes a shuddery breath.

Bucky pats his back, but not too hard, because it’s with his metal hand. “That sounds pretty shitty, Steve. Good thing it was only a bad dream, right?”

“Yeah.” He shifts a little to move closer to Bucky but freezes suddenly, letting out a groan of “oh my _god_ " and then buries his face in his knees again, his shoulders practically caving in.

“Steve?”

No answer for way too long.

“Steve, hey. Talk to me, gorgeous.” And to think, Steve’s had to deal with these nightmares for fucking _years_ now, comparatively speaking. Bucky’s getting off pretty light, all things considered; he’s only been conscious of even having them at all for like sixteen months.

“Please don’t hate me for this,” Steve says, his voice muffled.

“Unless you were secretly hiding cannolis under your pillow, that isn’t likely. Don’t tease a man with hidden cannolis, Steve.”

“I don’t think this is all sweat,” he finally manages. “I’m so fucking sorry, Buck. I didn’t think – it – hasn’t happened in so long…”

“Like these sheets weren’t gross from our marathon sex earlier tonight and which I was totally planning on washing in the morning anyway so they don’t get all crusty.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

Silence, again for way too long. It’s like Steve has no idea what to do.

“Steve, do you want me to take care of the sheets while you shower?” Bucky asks gently.

“You don’t have to.”

“Then can I shower with you?”

Steve looks up. “Buck, you know that thing isn’t big enough for the both of us at the same time. Did I…uh, get you?” He’s starting to get red around the ears now.

“Nah, I just like looking at you naked.” Bucky cracks a grin, but it doesn’t elicit the response he’d been hoping for.

“Just leave this, I’ll deal with it when I’m out of the shower,” Steve says, and gets out of bed to walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Bucky doesn’t listen, of course, and by the time Steve’s done, so is the linen switch. He’s also got the sheets in the washing machine with soap, put on a timer to start right before their morning coffee brews.

“I thought I told you to leave it, Bucky.” Steve actually looks _pissed_.

“It only took a couple of minutes.”

“And I told you I was going to deal with it.”

“Jesus, what are you so mad about? I saw a thing I could to do instead of just standing around, so I did it.”

“I’m still an adult right now. I don’t need you cleaning up after me. God, why can’t you ever just _leave it alone_?”

“What, you think just because you’re not little that I shouldn’t help out around here?” Bucky’s honestly baffled. He’d been hoping to just go back to bed, but he guesses this isn’t going to happen anytime soon. “We’re partners, Steve. I thought that’s how this went.”

“I don’t want you treating me like a child unless I ask for it! Stop managing me like everyone else does! Why is this so hard for you to get?”

“Steve, I’m not trying to manage you. And I don’t understand why you’re so mad at me right now.”

Steve grits his teeth and starts dressing in a t-shirt and workout pants. “I’m going for a run.”

“It’s not even 4 AM yet.”

“I like the quiet.”

“Do you want me to come? I can get dressed if you give me a mi—”

“I was thinking I’d just go by myself,” Steve cuts him off tightly.

“Okay, fine. _I’m_ going back to sleep. Have a nice run.” Bucky climbs back into bed and throws the blankets over his head, but he doesn’t sleep until long after he hears their front door slam shut. And he doesn’t sleep all that much, waking up earlier than he would have thought after an interruption like that.

Steve doesn’t come back until well after Bucky has finished his third cup of coffee. He’s curled up in an armchair in the living room and reading the latest National Geographic magazine when the front door opens.

“Hey, how was your run?”

“Fine. I’m going for a shower.” Steve turns in the direction of the bedroom and starts down the hallway.

“You want something to eat?” Bucky calls after him.

“No. Thanks.  Already ate.” He doesn’t even look over his shoulder to say it.

The avoidance doesn’t end there; as soon as Steve exits the bedroom dressed in old jeans and a faded t-shirt, he makes a beeline for the little study they’ve turned into an art studio without a word. When he does eventually come out, with paint staining his fingertips and knuckles, Steve starts rummaging around in the fridge until he comes up with some leftover pasta from Wednesday night. He eats it standing up and without bothering to heat it, and then it’s time to disappear into the studio once again. Of course, somehow Steve manages to do this all very loudly, as if to convey his suffering via heavy-footed walking and almost-but-not-quite door slams.

“Hey, St—”

The door closes on his words. Bucky would be lying if he said his feelings aren’t hurt right now, not that anyone’s asking if they are. All day long he’s wondered what, exactly, it is that he’s done so wrong. _Has_ he overstepped boundaries? _Does_ he treat Steve like a kid even when he isn’t? He doesn’t think so, but Bucky can’t help worrying about it anyway. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s misread a cue in this century, which is distressing because he used to be so good at reading people, too – at reading Steve. He can’t stop the anxiety from gnawing away at his insides no matter how many distractions or grounding techniques that he uses. The caffeine probably isn’t helping, either. He’s switched to tea, but Bucky likes it so strong that it almost melts the spoon he uses to stir in milk and sugar.

After too many minutes of unsuccessfully trying to pull himself out of the nosedive, Bucky finally just gets up and knocks on the door.

“What?”

Bucky opens the door without being invited. “Are you going to stay in here all day?”

Much to his surprise, Steve turns around, and up close, Bucky can see the bruise-like shadows under his eyes. “I dunno.”

"So are you going to keep avoiding me all day, too?"

Now he huffs a little. “I am not avoiding you, Bucky.”

“Then what the fuck is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Yeah, well, I think you do.”

Steve doesn’t meet his eye. “I just needed some space, okay?”

“Now that I can understand, but what makes you think I deserve the silent treatment?”

Steve sighs, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “I’m tired, Buck. I wanted some quiet while I got my frustrations out. I’m sorry, I should have told you.”

“You’re right, you should have. And I forgive you.” It’s amazing how easily the words tumble out, but Bucky knows Steve is being sincere. And what else is he gonna do, stay mad forever? What the hell would that accomplish? “Just…don’t do that to me ever again, okay? Please?”

“I won’t,” Steve promises. “I’m really sorry, Bucky. You shouldn’t even have to ask me that because I should already have known not to do it.”

Bucky shrugs. “Everyone makes a mistake at one time or another, I guess it was just your turn today. Why don’t you lie down for awhile and I’ll get dinner prepped? Exhaustion is clearly not doing you any favors.”

“That actually doesn’t sound like a bad idea.” Steve wipes his hands on a rag. “Wake me up if I’m not out of bed by 5?”

“Sure.”

Steve hugs Bucky for a good while, and Bucky hugs him back, grateful that the paint on Steve’s clothes has dried and isn’t going to ruin his all-black aesthetic. When Steve ambles into the bedroom, Bucky shuts the studio door so that he can figure out what to make for dinner. After half an hour of searching through the pantry, the kitchen cabinets, and the fridge, only to come up short of ideas, Bucky gives up and just goes to the supermarket to get supplies for tacos and guacamole. He stops at a fancy bakery on his walk back to the apartment for a s’mores pie and a few cupcakes. He would prefer a cherry pie, but ironically and hilariously, Steve absolutely hates it, even though everyone thinks he must surely be a fan because of the Captain America thing.

Steve isn’t out of bed at 5:00, so Bucky goes to give him a little shake if need be, careful to not stand too close or be too rough in waking him up. But Steve opens his eyes just a moment after Bucky touches his shoulder.

“Time’s it?” he asks sleepily, his voice soft around the edges.

“A couple of minutes past five. You almost ready for dinner? I just made some guacamole and got tortilla chips. I thought it would be a good appetizer for tacos.”

“I _love_ tacos.”

 Bucky cracks a grin at him. “I know, Steve, that’s why I made them. Also, because _Chopped_ would reject every ingredient combination in the house.”

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you be Daddy tonight, please?”

He probably should have anticipated that, but at least Steve asks now instead of just hoping Bucky will pick up on his cues. “Of course I can, lovebug. You want to put on some comfier clothes?” Steve had actually napped in the same t-shirt and jeans he’d been painting in. Who the hell sleeps in jeans? he wonders briefly.

He thinks about it for a minute. “My Wonder Woman shirt?”

“Sure. Pajama pants too?”

Steve nods, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

Bucky squats down to be eye-level with Steve, who’s still sitting up in bed. He tries not to stand over Steve when he feels little, because from personal experience, Bucky is aware that it isn’t exactly a friendly stance. “Hey, what’s the matter?”

“I….I dunno if I can be a bigger boy tonight, Daddy,” he admits.

“It’s okay if you can’t.”

Steve’s reaction is a bit of a surprise to them both as he bursts out, “It’s not okay! I couldn’t do it last night and I was mean and yelled at you because I was scared and now I can’t be big tonight either and you should be mad at me!”

Bucky sits down on the bed next to Steve and pulls him into a tight hug. “I’m not mad at you, Stevie. You already apologized and I accepted. It’s over and done with. Second, you don’t need to ever worry about asking me for something. Even if you _had_ been bad and even if I _was_ mad at you, I’d still take care of you because that’s my job.”

He takes a little bit to process that, throwing his arms around Bucky. “You’re a good daddy,” he says softly.

Bucky hugs him back just as tightly. “Thank you, baby. I’m trying pretty hard. You want to get changed so we can have dinner in a little bit?”

“Yes,” Steve answers, and lets go so Bucky can help him get dressed.

“Which would you rather have?” Bucky asks, having pulled a diaper and a pull-up out of the stacks. “There’s no wrong answer, so please be honest with me.”

Steve doesn’t hesitate to point to the diaper.

“I think that was a good choice.” He smiles, and Steve smiles back tentatively. “Need help getting undressed?”

“I can do it.” And he does, while Bucky gets out the changing mat and grabs a bottle of powder, putting his clothes in the hamper without being asked. He lies down on the mat and Bucky commences with the whole process, and soon he’s dressed in the requested pajama pants and Wonder Woman t-shirt.

It turns out to be a good thing Bucky accidentally made too much guacamole, because Steve goes for it like a starving man. Which he probably is, given that he hasn’t eaten since the cold pasta several hours ago, and Bucky lets him eat most of it. Not that he lets Steve have _all_ of it. Being able to get fresh produce anytime of the year is still a novelty, and avocados are on the top of Bucky’s list.

“You want to help me make dinner? Or do you want to color while I get it ready?”

Steve answers him by sliding off the sofa and onto his knees in front of the coffee table, sitting on his heels comfortably as he reaches for one of the several coloring books and a set of crayons from its lower-level shelf.

“So, coloring, then?” Bucky ruffles his hair.

Steve squirms away like he always does, pretending to hate it, but he’s grinning now. “I like coloring, Daddy.”

“I know. I’m gonna have to get you some more books soon.”

“Could I have some about the ocean? And the really big box of crayons?” he wants to know.

“Sure, kiddo.” Bucky ruffles Steve’s hair again. “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready. Come get me if you need anything, okay?”

Steve nods, taking a sip of water from his favorite cup, which changes color from purple to blue when cold liquid is put into it, flipping through the book until he finds a picture he hasn’t started on yet. Bucky heads into the kitchen to start dinner, which doesn’t take too long (and is partly why he’d chosen tacos in the first place). They eat in the kitchen with the radio on, tuned to a sports station airing the American League pennant game. It isn’t the old Dodgers that they knew and rooted for, of course, but it’s baseball. The seasons have gotten a lot longer since the forties, but that’s one thing neither of them can complain about much.

Steve sits backwards on a kitchen chair, watching Bucky scrub out the saucepot that had contained chili beans; he still has the other one that had contained the ground turkey with taco seasoning left to do. “Daddy, can we watch a movie?”

“You don’t want to color anymore?”

“I can finish later,” Steve tells him.

“All right. Why don’t you go pick out a movie to watch and I’ll come sit on the sofa with you as soon as I’m done cleaning?”

“Is _Robin Hood_ okay?”

 “Errol Flynn or the fox one?” Not that it matters; they like both movies.

“The fox one.”

“Go ahead,” Bucky says, turning away from the sink just long enough to smooch Steve’s cheek.

Steve darts off, and when Bucky makes it out to the living room feeling like his metal hand has also turned into a shriveled prune, he isn’t surprised to Steve burritoed into his favorite blanket or with a pacifier parked firmly in his mouth. He must’ve grabbed that from their bedroom too, along with the bear, which is next to Steve on the sofa.

“Hey, did you leave any room for me?” Bucky teases.

Steve laughs, scooting over toward the center so Bucky can sit on the end, and therefore Steve can snuggle up against him and let his feet dangle off the other end. Bucky gets the movie going and settles into the cushions, putting his feet up on the ottoman. When _Robin Hood_ is finished, Steve declares that he would also like to see _The Lion King_ , please.

“We can do that, but first Daddy needs a bathroom break,” he answers. “Do you need a change too?”

Steve blushes a little, taking out the pacifier and setting it on top of his coloring book on the coffee table. “I don’t need one yet, Daddy.”

“Just let me know when you do. I am gonna need you to move for just a sec so I can get up, okay?”

He does, which is good because Bucky’s legs had started going a bit numb. Bucky’s back in the living room having taken said break and with a bowl of popcorn for them both in hand within five minutes, and Steve has already taken a handful before Bucky’s even gotten to finish sitting down.

“Do I get some, or is this just for you?”

“You could always make a second bowl,” Steve says helpfully through a mouthful, simultaneously snuggling up against Bucky and stealing more popcorn.

Simba’s just been exiled when Steve begins to squirm, sliding his hand down to hold his crotch under the blanket when he thinks Bucky isn’t looking. Bucky is, of course, fully aware of what’s going on right now, but he doesn’t say anything, just threads his fingers through Steve’s hair for the time being. The squirming comes to an abrupt halt just a few minutes later, but still longer than Bucky would have predicted, as he normally tends to just let go as soon as he feels the need. Steve finally relaxes against him again, reaching over to the coffee table to get his pacifier and put it back in.

“I think you need a change, baby,” Bucky murmurs into Steve’s ear, hitting the pause button on the remote control.

Steve shakes his head.

“Yes, you do. I know you don’t want to get up, but I need you to listen, okay? It’ll only take a couple of minutes and then we can come right back and finish the movie.”

Steve makes an impatient little noise around his pacifier but otherwise submits to being led into the bedroom and changed, although he makes it clear that he is not happy at all about being removed from his warm and comfy nest. But, true to his word, Bucky makes it quick, and Steve quits huffing about it once they’re ensconced on the sofa, this time electing to sit directly in Bucky’s lap for the duration of the movie.

“How about we read for a little while before bedtime?” Bucky asks Steve once the credits are rolling, and receives an enthusiastic nod in response. “Go pick out a book, then.”

Steve doesn’t grumble at having to get up this time, returning quickly with _Where the Sidewalk Ends_ , resuming his place on Bucky’s lap, leaning back against him as Bucky starts to read.

“Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout would not take the garbage out…” Bucky reads to him for what seems like no time at all, but once he starts noticing Steve’s eyes beginning to droop along with the rest of him, he’s surprised to see that it’s almost 10:00. The power of Shel Silverstein, Bucky guesses. He wraps up the poem he’s reading and sets the book down.

“It’s time for bed, kiddo.”

Steve whines something that Bucky doesn’t even try to understand because he hasn’t bothered to take out his pacifier.

“Yes, it is. You can barely keep your head up.”

 This time it’s a more articulate “no,” but delivered in a way that would make Bucky’s ears twitch if they were physically capable of doing so.

“Hey, what’ve I said about whining?”

Steve finally clears his mouth, dangling his pacifier by his pinkie finger. “Not to do it?”

“Bingo. Now come on, up onto your feet.”

“Carry me, Daddy?”

Bucky’s a little surprised by the request because Steve doesn’t often ask for that, but at least he isn’t putting up a fight about going to bed. It’s always when he’s the most tired that he drags his feet and complains and refuses to listen, and it’s unpleasant for them both. So he rearranges them both into a position where Bucky can carry Steve – all six-foot-two, 240 pounds of muscle of him – the relatively short distance into their bedroom. Bucky deposits him onto the changing mat on the bed, which he hadn’t put away from the last time, knowing they would need it again before the night was over.

“Again?” Steve mumbles, although he does slide his pajama pants down without being asked to.

“I’m not letting you go to bed wet, Stevie. It’s not good for you,” Bucky explains, like they don’t go through this every evening they spend as daddy and little. “And I don’t think you’d like it very much if you woke up because you leaked.”

“Mmph.” Steve buries his face in his teddy bear and lets Bucky rip open the sides of his wet diaper.

It only takes a short few minutes until Steve’s clean and dry, and another few minutes for them each to brush their teeth. Bucky folds up the mat and puts it away so they can get underneath the covers. Steve leaves the bear on the floor next to his side of the bed and sets the pacifier on the night stand, but keeps the blanket, although he still hogs the duvet as usual.

“Feeling a little better now?” Bucky asks once he’s turned out the light and Steve is snuggled up to him, little-spoon style.

“Yeah,” Steve answers softly. “Don’t feel like I’m spinning anymore.”

Spinning…it takes Bucky a second to figure out what that might mean. “You felt like you were out of control, and now you have it back?”

“Uh-huh. I don’t like it when I’m mad at everything. But you helped me and I’m not mad at everything now.”

Bucky kisses Steve’s hair, the only part of him he can reach without contorting himself. “I’m glad I could do that for you, baby.”

Steve yawns so hard that Bucky wonders if his jaw is going to unhinge right there. “Can we have bagels for breakfast?”

“Do you _always_ think about food?”

“Yes. So, can we?”

Bucky laughs. “We can have bagels. I’ll pick some up in the morning and we can make breakfast sandwiches. But you’re doing the dishes.”

“….think I’ll be little again tomorrow, too.”


End file.
